


Olympic neighbours

by junetangerine (culuyetille)



Series: ∞ 00Q AUs [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Banter, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 02:04:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8037928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/culuyetille/pseuds/junetangerine
Summary: “Q. Chess.”   When his hand was gripped with rather more force than necessary, it became clear that the blond man hadn’t missed the condescending tone that implied Q found him exceedingly thick for not having figured it out himself.  “James Bond. Swimming.”(2016 Olympics!AU)





	Olympic neighbours

Many people were thrilled at the inclusion of chess as a sport at the 2016 edition of the Summer Olympics.

Q was not one of them.

He had been assured that the increased visibility would mean better funding, but so far it had failed to translate into proper, non-economy seats for the aeroplane ride. Travelling first-class would be just as dreadful since it was still _flying_ , which man had absolutely no business doing in his not very humble opinion, but at least he wouldn’t be squashed against a hulking moron for thirteen hours. There was an unusual number of broad-shouldered people in this flight, since it was filled almost entirely with athletes.  
  
“Excuse me, I’m in 23B,” came a polite voice slightly above his head.  
  
Q obligingly stood to allow his neighbour access to the window seat. The man thanked him and settled in, knees uncomfortably pressed against the front row. Q couldn’t help noticing he had massive thighs. He didn’t immediately sprawl his elbow over their shared armrest, at which Q grudgingly conceded the man a mental upgrade to non-oaf.  
He would’ve been happy to put on his earplugs and allow his world to narrow down to the screen of his smartphone until he could have access to the alcohol that would jumpstart the nifty, not strictly legal properties of his travelling pills. However, he could feel the man sneaking side-glances at him, probably trying to reconcile his slight build and glasses with the emblazoned jacket that declared him a member of the 2016 Olympics British delegation.  
  
What fucking bollocks.  
  
Q promptly stuck out his hand, a merciless glint in his eyes.  
  
“Q. Chess.”     
  
When his hand was gripped with rather more force than necessary, it became clear that the blond man hadn’t missed the condescending tone that implied Q found him exceedingly thick for not having figured it out himself.    
  
“James Bond. Swimming.”  
  
Well, that accounted for the broad torso and strong legs. Q’s mind was instantly flooded by an image of the man before him stepping out of the water clad in nothing but a speedo covering scant inches of his sun-kissed skin. It must’ve been written all over his face, judging by the knowing curl of Bond’s lips and how he had yet to let go of Q’s hand. He pulled it back, and could feel the tips of his ears burning. He refused to lower his eyes though, and instead grabbed for conversational purchase – and, as per usual, landed on a sharp one.  
  
“Coach?”  
  
  
Bond’s smile hardened at once.  
  
“I was setting records for Great Britain before you were old enough to drive.”  
  
Even in the highly stress-inducing imminence of being airborne, Q couldn’t find it in him to bite back. He knew he had overstepped. Chess was one of the very few sports that people didn’t age out of. He couldn’t begin to imagine dedicating one’s life to something, then all of a sudden being told you were unfit for it. Bond was probably fighting that battle a few times a day, if the belligerent set of his jaw was anything to go by.  
  
“Well, that’s not very long ago,” Q conceded gracefully.    
  
They reclined back in their seats facing straight ahead, about the only privacy offered by the crammed up accommodations. As covertly as possible, Q looked up “James Bond” online. The man was a tw0-time olympic silver medallist, had one world championship gold and one bronze under his belt. He was seven times national 800m freestyle champion, having set three British speed records, the latest in 2010.  
  
Just as he was about to say something, a small sign overhead lit up and the flight captain announced they should fasten their seatbelts for takeoff. Q shuddered and shut his eyes, gripping his hands and concentrating in breathing through his nose. He just had to make it through takeoff, then flight service would begin, he would knock back one tiny bottle of strong liquor or three and be detached from his body for a few hours.  
  
At first he thought he was imagining the smell of scotch, then there was a gentle nudge against his forearm.  
  
“You look like you could use some.”  
  
Q opened his eyes. Bond was waving a small flask at him, presumably filled with whiskey. His blue gaze was sympathetic. Q accepted the offer. The liquid warmed his throat and settled nicely in his stomach.  
  
“Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome.”  
“How did you get it past airport security? I saw them confiscate a woman’s hand lotion.”  
“I… made a very good case,” said Bond, using the pause to dart his tongue over his lower lip, effectively illustrating his smuggling methods before sipping the profits himself, then offering it back to Q.    
  
   
“Famous and achingly fit, I’ll bet they’d have let you bring a regular bottle.” Then, at the man’s widened eyes, “Fair warning: I took some medicine to help me not panic too much during the flight. Mixed with alcohol it should knock me off soon, but until then please don’t mark my words.” He took another sip. “And if you need to use the loo just step over me, because I won’t be waking up.”  
“Noted. And your virtue is safe with me.”  
  
Bond raised the flask in something between a toast and a vow. Oddly enough, he seemed to mean it. Q beamed sleepily. The last thing he saw before going under was Bond’s warm answering smile.  
  
  


* * *

  
He woke up with a start. His drug-addled brain took a bit longer than usual to reboot his senses, and by then there was a repetition of the loud noise that had cut through his sleep.  
Next to him, head lolled to one side and resting atop one of those neck-hugging travel pillows, James Bond was snoring none-too-charmingly. Q fished in his pockets for his earplugs, donned them and tried to resume his comfortable position.  
It was only then that he realised he had been leaning against the other man’s shoulder. Oh well. If he was going to put up with married-life-like hitches, might as well enjoy the perks.  
  
  


* * *

  
The next time Q awoke, the cabin was lit up. The plane mustn’t be far from Rio. Bond was nowhere to be seen.  
  
He stretched his arms above his head, trying to shake off the queasiness that came after having ignored the pills instructions to not mix them with alcohol. Another unfortunate circumstance was his bladder, which felt as though it was about to burst. He steeled himself and got to his feet.  
  
He washed his face and gargled some water in an attempt to look and feel a bit less like he’d been put through the aeroplane turbines. When he made it back, Bond too had returned to his seat.  
  
“Hello, Q. How are you doing?”  
“Not too bad.”  
“The flight service cart passed by right after you dozed off last night. I saved you a sandwich.”  
  
It might have been the residual chemicals in his system, the lack of caffeine or the way his skin tingled as their fingers brushed over the exchanged food. Or maybe a combination of all those things and how Bond was staring fondly at him as he ate.  
It just blurted out of Q.  
  
“I hope we’re neighbours at the villa.”  
  
Bond’s slow smile was blazes and honey promises.  
  
“I think we should be flatmates.”  
“I think I’d like that.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Chess isn’t an Olympic sport just yet. They applied for inclusion in the 2020 games. But it seemed the one best suited for Q, so ;)


End file.
